Carolina Matthews

Quinta feira passada minha mãe lançou seu primeiro romance, “maria” – escrito assim, em letras minúsculas. A letra minúscula no início de um nome próprio na capa de seu livro é apenas mais uma das peculiaridades de minha mãe, que costumam fascinar a maior parte das pessoas que a conhecem, gostem dela ou nao.

A estória que ela conta em “maria” ganha vida com essas peculiaridades. Por vezes eu sinto meu rosto corar frente a sua honestidade em compartilhar sua complexa humanindade, e penso que eu jamais teria a audácia de exibir minhas falhas em publico como ela. Os defeitos expostos, porém, são libertadores quando associados a uma mulher admirável, suficientemente corajosa para acreditar em si e defender suas convicções.

Além dos insights sobre si, “maria” vividamente detalha características de outros, e costura sentidos invocando-me a cada cena, enriquecendo a história e impondo às minhas percepcoes a realidade dos eventos descritos. Eu vejo, sinto, cheiro e ouço o que a protagonista vive. Como consequência, em vez da empatia que costumo sentir como leitora, meu corpo reage a “maria” com emoções reais em primeira mão.

Seu talento desperta minha sensibilidade para observar a vida à minha volta: aparências adquirem cheiros, emoções ganham cor, sons recebem imagem. Toda essa intensidade é transferida para meu mundo, conectando o real e o fantástico e alimentando minha própria imaginação com o desejo de digerir a vida através das palavras.

Last Thursday my mother launched her first novel, “maria” – written like that, with lower case. The font size beginning a proper name on the cover of her book is just another of my mother’s peculiarities, which usually fascinate most people who know her, whether they like her or not.

The story she tells in “maria” comes to life with those peculiarities. At times I blush at her honesty in sharing her complex humanity, thinking I would never have the courage to exhibit my flaws in public like that. Most of the lines, however, liberate me as they portray an admirable woman, courageous enough to assume herself and to stand for her beliefs.

Besides the insights on herself, “maria” vividly details characteristics of other humans and ties senses together when bringing me to a scene, enriching the story and forcing the reality of each event described into my perceptions: I see, I feel, I smell and I hear what the protagonist lives. As a consequence, my body reacts with true first hand emotions, rather than empathetic ones.

Her talent wakes up my sensibility to observe life around me. Appearances acquire smells, emotions become tinted, sounds gain image. All that intensity is transferred to my world, bridging the real-outside-world and the fantastic-inside-world and feeding my own imagination with the desire to digest life through words.

Living in the United States, race, color and ethnicity became subjects of reflection like never before in my life. These are matters of great importance in the humanistic fields like education and psychology, and what calls my attention is that these aspects are discussed, analyzed and studied almost detached from the whole of the person “carrying” them, rather than as part of a complex individual.

According to Wikipedia, “multiratial Brazilians make up 42% of Brazil’s population”, which is to say that almost half the population of my country consists of mixed race people. Although the actual number is new to me, my observation pointed towards something like that, and I have taken pride in this perception since the first time I got in contact with the schizoid way race is perceived in the United States. More recently, however, I have realized that the separation has its advantages, and the main one I see is the attachment each people has to their own culture, keeping in contact with their origins, their mother language, their customs and traditions. In one word: roots. I come from Arabs, Amerindian and Portuguese on one side and Lebanese and Portuguese on the other. I love having this rich ancestry, but I know very little of the history and the geography of my family. I wonder if this obliviousness was purposeful on the part of the miscegenating couples to avoid cultural shock.

About ten years ago my sister befriended a group of Arab girls in Sao Paulo whose families kept their breed almost pure. I do not think it was a coincidence that these girls could speak at least a few words of Arabic and knew their ancestors’ history. I became envious of them, I wished I knew more about mine, and I asked my relatives for information. Although I was told about our origins, I can only remember some fragments. I do not know the name of the city my great-grandfather came from – or was it my great-great-grandfather? I can barely pronounce his original name – the one he had before he changed it to be more understandable for the Brazilians – and I do not know any words in Arabic. I know absolutely nothing about my Amerindian ascendence, nor about the Portuguese one.

The other day a friend shared the story of an acquaintance who had been adopted. As we often hear happens with adoptive children, this person my friend knew became uneasy with the unknown and would not rest until she found her birth mother. After she met her, she gladly rejoined her adoptive one and dropped the matter.

I feel a little like the adoptive child, who seeks the lost mother  and decides she can be dismissed once they meet. However I still feel the emptiness, the need to belong like these “pure breed” people do. I wonder if other multiracial individuals feel the same, if what happens to me is as common as what happens with adoptive children. That does not solve my personal restlessness, but it would be quite interesting to find out.